


Common People

by TheSingerThatYouWanted (orphan_account)



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: 1960s AU, Human Bollo, I just don't care, I know some of the songs are from the wrong years, I write too many weird aus, mods and rockers au, some mild homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:31:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3205994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheSingerThatYouWanted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the 1960s. Vince is King of the Mods (or, at least, he thinks he is). Howard is a wannabe rocker.<br/>At this point your guess is as good as mine as to what happens next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You've grown up all wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so first up a disclaimer- it will almost definitely be a while before I update this. I'm currently working on my Nathan Barley police au (insert shameless self-promotion here GO CHECK IT OUT IF YOU HAVEN'T ALREADY I'M HAVING A LOT OF FUN WRITING IT) but I've been kicking this idea around for a while so I thought I'd put together a beginning just to see if anyone thinks it could work. Because of this I would really appreciate some honest feedback, so if you could take the time to drop me a couple of lines in the comments I'd love you forever.  
> Other than that, I think all that there is left to do is apologise for my constant writing of weird aus and to say I hope you enjoy!

There were at least nine of them in the car, which was pretty impressive given that it was only designed to carry five. Howard was a bit annoyed at that fact he’d somehow ended up with the worst seat of the lot, especially seeing as it was his car. Well, technically his mum’s car. He’d even had to get permission to borrow it. Nonetheless, when he’d picked up the keys from the kitchen table he’d finally felt like he was a real member of the group. This was rebellion, of a sort at least. This was what he, Howard Moon, man of action, had been born to do.  
He’d been so confident when he’d brought them outside, the metal keys jangling triumphantly as the others cheered and thumped him on the back in congratulations. For a few moments he’d actually felt as though he belonged. Then Bainbridge had plucked the keys unceremoniously from his hand and leapt into the driver’s seat without a moment’s pause. Howard’s protests went unnoticed as the rest of the gang piled into the small car, pressing close together in the back seat and clambering across to perch wherever there was space. A nervous laugh bubbled its way up from Howard’s throat.  
“There, uh, there’s no room for me,” he pointed out.  
Bainbridge shot him a grin, the rest of the gang watching expectantly and sniggering.  
“Oh, don’t you worry, Moon. We’ve got a special seat for you.”  
Hunched over in the boot of the car, knees pulled up to his chest, listening to the rattle of the engine and the occasional snatches of laughter coming from inside, Howard reflected glumly that this wasn’t quite how he’d hoped the day would work out. His legs were already growing stiff and sore from being stuck in the same position for too long. It was too warm in the musty darkness of the boot and he tugged aimlessly at his leather jacket, though there was too little space for him to take it off. He didn’t even like the jacket all that much, truth be told. He was just wearing it because of what Tommy had told him.  
“All the girls love a rocker, Moon,” he’d said, weaving his drunken way to work one morning. His walk may have been almost as unsteady as the finger he was waving under Howard’s nose, but his gaze was strong and fixed directly on Howard. At the time he’d been just the new kid in the pet shop, desperate for advice on how to make his way in the world, and as such he’d clung to Tommy’s every slurred syllable.  
“Get yourself a leather jacket,” the man had continued in a confidential tone, as though he was imparting a great secret. “And find some new friends. Ditch that Lester guy. Then the girls will be falling over themselves to get a piece of you.  
“Even Gideon?” Howard had asked, suspicious of Tommy’s motivation. He’d learned from experience that it was best not to trust everything he said. Tommy had nodded solemnly, swaying a little on his feet.  
“Even Gideon,” he’d confirmed, before promptly throwing up on Howard’s shoes.  
Howard sighed, abandoning his attempts to take the jacket off, and slumped down against the hard floor. Clearly whoever had designed the boot hadn’t cared too much about comfort. Every tiny pothole or bump in the road sent a sharp jolt through him, making him wince with pain. He was going to be covered in bruises by the time they got to Brighton. Nonetheless, he tried to make the best of it.  
He wasn’t really very good at being a rocker. That, when it came down to it, was the root of the problem. He didn’t much care for the clothes, motorbikes terrified him, and it took almost a whole tub of gel before he could get his hair into something even remotely resembling the fashion. Worst of all, Gideon- the woman who ran the bakery across the road from the pet shop where he worked, the only reason he’d tried to get into this whole subculture in the first place- still didn’t look twice at him.  
This weekend sounded like it was going to be fun, though. Bainbridge had told him all about it. Because it was a bank holiday, he’d explained calmly, there was going to be a sort of meet-up. Loads of rockers were going to go to Brighton, like a kind of party. Howard had been more than willing to borrow the car for them so they could all go. Alright, so he hadn’t considered the possibility that he might have to spend the journey trapped inside what was essentially just a metal box, but sacrifices had to be made. With this in mind he closed his eyes and tried to think of something else.  
At some point he must have dozed off because when he next opened his eyes the car was slowing to a halt. There were scuffling noises from above his head as his friends- and he hesitated there, in the privacy of his own mind, because maybe they were his friends but the word didn’t quite seem to fit- climbed out. For a few more seconds there was nothing, but then Bainbridge was flinging the boot open and, as usual, shouting. He had a naturally booming voice. Howard was pretty sure that was the main reason he was accepted as their leader; he was simply too loud to ignore otherwise.  
“Come on, Moon, out you get.”  
Howard blinked, wincing as his legs protested against the sudden movement. The bright sunlight hurt his eyes. He could smell salt on the air, and a pleasantly cool breeze hit him. Summer had arrived early that year, it seemed, and when he looked around he saw hundreds- maybe thousands- of other people who had clearly made the same plans. He spotted several suits amongst the sea of leather jackets and worry stirred somewhere in his chest. This looked like trouble.  
Someone tapped his shoulder and Howard spun around to see Bollo looking down at him. He looked concerned. Howard had always got on well with Bollo. He was tall and heavyset, with more hair than should have really been possible, but once you got to know him he was alright. He just looked intimidating at first. Also, he had once kicked a door clean off its hinges when he was pissed.  
“We should go,” he informed Howard gruffly. “Looks like it all about to kick off.”  
Howard was about to agree when Bainbridge stepped in, combing his hair back as he spoke.  
“I agree. Let’s get down to the pier. After all,” he added with a grin, “that’s where all the action will be.”  
“I-no, I think he meant-” began Howard, but nobody seemed to hear him. As one they hurried down towards the thin sliver of blue until it resolved itself into a perfect ocean, stretching away for miles. There were more mods down there, standing in groups and eyeing nearby rockers with disdain. Howard’s gaze flickered nervously between the groups. Those in suits were smoothly checking their lapels for the hidden razor blades stitched there, while the groups wearing leather were slipping their hands cockily into their pockets. Howard saw several flick knives glint in the sunlight.  
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” muttered Bollo. Howard was inclined to agree with him.  
“Bainbridge? What’s going on?” he asked nervously.  
“Hm?”  
Bainbridge glanced down at him, chuckling.  
“Ah, of course. I didn’t tell you because I wanted to borrow your car and me and the boys all agreed that you’re too straight-laced to help us if you knew what we were planning.”  
“I’m not straight-laced,” put in Howard indignantly. “I’m a rebel, oh yes sir. Nobody can control me.”  
He paused, processing the rest of what Bainbridge had said.  
“But, uh, just out of interest, what- what were you planning?”  
“Why, the fight, of course.”  
Bainbridge gestured around them, at the steadily-growing crowds of youths, and Howard became aware of a constant, restless whispering travelling through the air. The atmosphere was so tense it was almost tangible. The sensation sent a shiver down his back. He shifted from foot to foot nervously, listening with growing apprehension as Bainbridge continued.  
“Look around. Thousands of us, mods and rockers, in the same place with nothing to do. It was going to happen sooner or later, and when I heard that here was a likely spot, well, I just had to get in on it. Of course, we needed transport. I wasn’t going to bring my bike here, one of them might come near it. So we brought you along.”  
Howard opened his mouth to retort, feeling anger burst and fizz in his veins, but at that moment he heard a skittering of metal on brick and looked towards the sound. One of the rockers had dropped his knife and it had skidded, coming to a halt at the feet of a nearby mod. There was a pause as he stooped to pick it up, folding the blade out as though handling some disgusting specimen of insect. The rocker’s hands were balled into fists by his sides as he watched. At their backs were their respective groups of friends. The mods looked on with a kind of focused disgust while the rockers looked about ready to kill. All eyes were on the two men, nobody so much as daring to breathe. Slowly, agonizingly so, as though dragging the weight of the earth along with it, their gazes met.  
It was like a whistle had been blown. With a yell that sent seabirds from miles around soaring away in one huge, confused cloud, the two groups launched themselves at each other. Stumbling back, Howard saw the rocker leap at the mod, pinning him down and grabbing his lapel only to jerk away with a cry of pain. Swearing and clutching his bleeding hand, the rocker and his friends sent kick after kick into the mod’s sides while he lashed out at them with the stolen knife. Someone crashed into Howard’s back and he spun just in time to see a stray mod get flung through the air just inches away. All around him was a terrifying, swirling, desperate mass of sound and colour. The once-tranquil air was filled with screams and curses, the town’s peaceful holiday atmosphere shattered beyond repair. He nearly lost his footing as he scrambled to find somewhere a bit less dangerous to stand, but a strong hand grabbed the back of his jacket and hauled him upright. Bollo. Howard hurried to stand beside him, hiding behind the taller man and watching the carnage unfold. After a minute or so Bainbridge materialised beside them, with his hair all out of place and a large tear in his leather jacket. Howard assumed he’d got these injuries while he was punching out one of the three mods he was dragging behind him.  
“Here, take this,” he said, holding out what looked like part of a deckchair. Howard took it reluctantly, not entirely sure what he was expected to do but absolutely certain that he wasn’t going to like it. Bainbridge nodded his approval.  
“Good. Now go and beat that mod’s head in.”  
He pointed to a point over Howard’s shoulder. Howard blinked at him in confusion.  
“What? Why?”  
“Because he’s a mod, isn’t that obvious? Besides, I don’t like his hair.”  
Howard shook his head, clutching the splintered plank of wood to his chest.  
“I can’t do that. He’s not done anything wrong.”  
Bainbridge rolled his eyes and gestured to Bollo. The big man looked down at Howard apologetically.  
“Sorry ‘bout this,” he said quietly, before grabbing the back of Howard’s jacket and shoving him hard into the centre of the fight.  
Howard clung to the deckchair desperately, searching for a way out. There didn’t seem to be one. All around him were knots of people knocking lumps out of each other, the only fixed point the mod Bainbridge had indicated. He was standing still, facing away from the worst of the fighting and staring out across the sea. Howard lifted the plank like a baseball bat, trying to get his hands to stop shaking. It would be alright. He didn’t even have to hit the guy all that hard- one good shove and he’d be over the edge of the pier, out of the way, no questions asked, and he’d be fine once he dried off. That wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe if Howard did that the others would start paying him a bit more respect, and then Gideon might finally see him the way he wanted her to. Thinking about it, though, looking at the back of the mod’s head, Howard wasn’t even sure he could do that. He wasn’t even entirely certain the person he was hitting was a man. That was the trouble with mods, they all looked the same. He could barely bring himself to hit a guy- if it was a girl, there was no way he could manage it. He might have been rebellious, but he liked to view himself as chivalrous as well. If he’d had a code, this would definitely go against it.  
“Come on, Moon!” yelled Bainbridge from somewhere behind him. Howard took a deep breath and readied himself to swing, but at the last possible second the mod turned around. Howard felt himself deflate.  
The man he was looking at- and it was a man, Howard could see that now- had striking, angular features and the bluest eyes Howard had ever seen. They were the precise shade of the ocean, fear sparking inside of them like sunlight playing across the waves. He looked vulnerable, terrified, and Howard knew he couldn’t do it. The young man’s mouth was slightly open and he raised a hand to defend himself. Howard was frozen. For a split second time stood still.  
“Hey! Look what he’s doing to Vince!” yelled a voice, and suddenly everything snapped back into motion. At least three people tackled him at once, sending him flying to the ground. The deckchair flew out of his hand, skidding across the pier until someone else picked it up and began using it to beat up his opponent. Howard cried out in pain as a stranger’s fists connected with his face and threw his arms up in an attempt to deflect the worst of the blows. He was dimly aware of Bainbridge hauling off and punching the kid he’d been sent to attack hard in the face. He was sent reeling back, stunned, and Bainbridge just kept hitting him. Howard wanted to tell him to stop- the kid couldn’t defend himself, there was every chance he could barely see straight after a punch like that, it wasn’t a fair fight- but someone’s boot collided with his side and drove all the air from his lungs. Howard could taste blood.  
Suddenly a call went up, flying between mods and rockers alike as fast and urgent as a lightning strike.  
“Police!”  
“Beat it!”  
“It’s the fuzz!”  
Everyone who was still able to run scrambled to get away, leaving scattered bodies and total carnage behind them. Most of those still lying on the ground were in varying states of consciousness, largely just groaning. Howard tried to climb to his feet, but he seemed to have forgotten how to stand properly and sat down again with a heavy thud. Everything seemed to be spinning. The mod Bainbridge had been fighting was slumped against the railings opposite him, blinking and looking around in confusion. Howard tried to ask him if he was alright, but his mouth decided against it and let out a string of unintelligible gibberish instead. The mod frowned. Howard was about to give it another shot when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.  
“Don’t move,” said a voice, low and threatening. Howard looked up to see a policeman glaring down at him, glancing between him and the young mod.  
“You two are coming with me,” he continued, yanking Howard to his feet and cuffing his hands behind his back. Howard was too stunned to really process what was happening, the policeman’s words merging into a sort of low whine.  
“…could be held against you in a court of law, so on, et cetera,” concluded the officer, cuffing the mod and leading them both towards a police car. Howard stumbled along the way, and every time he did so the mod snickered. It seemed like he’d recovered his senses enough to remember whose side he was on, at least. As they reached the car Howard took one last look around, at the beaches that were now covered in splintered wood and unlucky fighters, but then the doors were slammed shut and it didn’t seem to matter anymore. In the relative quiet of the car, alone with his pounding headache and the semi-conscious mod, Howard allowed himself to slip quietly into the darkness behind his eyes.


	2. But, darling, I'm imprisoned by these...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did I decide today was the day to spontaneously write an entire chapter in one sitting? No idea. Glad I did, though. So far I've just decided to let these characters do their own thing and see where they take me, so updates will be irregular and I apologise for that. Hopefully you'll enjoy it anyway.

Slumped at the interview table, head in his hands, Howard wondered why so many of his fellow rockers were so keen to get arrested. He’d heard them bragging about it, loads of times, claiming that it showed how cool and rebellious they were. He’d been almost jealous. The way they told it had made it sound like every moment had been a battle of wits, a struggle for survival as they’d laughed in the face of the law. The reality, as Howard was reluctantly discovering, was just so _boring_.  
There had been loads of them brought in after the fight was over, both mods and rockers. Mostly they were too drunk, concussed or just plain stubborn to answer any questions, or even to give their own name and address. As a result the overwhelming majority of Howard’s time in the station was spent slouching in the corner, trying his best to go unnoticed and avoid catching the eye of the mod he’d been brought in with. Despite his best efforts, though, something about the man kept drawing his gaze. He’d hurried over to join some of the other men- or possibly women, Howard still couldn’t quite tell- almost as soon as they’d arrived. The divide down the centre of the room was almost comically clear, suits on one side and jackets on the other, all in various states of uncoordinated anger.  
It had been a long time before the police had made any headway at all in interviewing everyone. One at a time people had been called- and often dragged- out and into a small side room. The mod Howard had been surreptitiously watching was one of the first, so at least Howard knew his name now. It was Vince, Vince Noir. He wondered if that was his real name. It didn’t sound like one, but then again he did look like some kind of disinherited aristocrat so anything was possible where stupid names were concerned.  
The room was almost empty by the time it was Howard’s turn. He guessed they’d left him to last because he looked the least threatening, which he would probably have been offended by if he hadn’t been too bored to care. There was nobody he wanted to talk to and nothing to do. He’d briefly considered asking one of the officers to lend him a book or something but had decided against it when they’d caught him staring and glared.  
When he eventually got taken into the interview room it was almost a relief. The officer was a little gruff and impatient, which was understandable. As Howard sat back, trying to look both confident and humble at the same time, the man had asked him question after question without pausing to let him answer properly.  
“Howard Moon, isn’t it?”  
“Yes.”  
“Why were you in Brighton today?”  
“I was on holiday with my friends. At least, I thought I was. I-”  
“Were you aware there was going to be a fight today?”  
“I had no idea. Like I said, my friends-”  
“Would you identify yourself as a ‘rocker’, Mr Moon?”  
“I suppose I would, yes.”  
“And as a result can we assume your feelings toward ‘mods’ are less than pleasant?”  
On and on it went, the officer’s accusing tone of voice boring into Howard’s aching skull. After a while he sighed and pushed a small plastic bag across the table towards Howard.  
“Is this yours?” he asked. He sounded dull and resigned, and Howard almost felt sorry for him having to interview all the people they’d brought back from the beach. He looked into the bag and nodded.  
“Yes. I mean yes, sir. I mean- do I mean ‘sir’?”  
The officer squinted at him.  
“What? Look, is it yours or isn’t it?”  
“Yes.”  
“Okay. Are you aware that it’s against the law to carry that kind of weaponry?”  
“Oh, it’s not a weapon.”  
Frowning, the policeman reached into the bag and tipped the contents into his hand. Inside was a broken pencil, about £2.63 in change, and something which looked almost exactly like a flick knife. It was this last item that the officer picked up, toying with it for a few seconds before meeting Howard’s gaze again.  
“So you’re telling me that this isn’t a knife? Because it looks an awful lot like one to me, and believe me I’ve seen a few of them today.”  
“Yes. No. I mean- Yes, I’m telling you that, but no, it’s not a knife.”  
Howard fumbled with the words slightly, worrying that he wouldn’t be able to articulate properly and then he’d get in more trouble. He just wanted this to blow over so things could go back to normal.  
The policeman, on the other hand, seemed in no hurry. He placed the object delicately onto the table and leaned back, tilting his head slightly to look hard at Howard.  
“You realise I can find out very easily if you’re lying, don’t you?” he said, in a voice that reminded Howard of his least favourite school teacher, all smooth and reasonable in a way that hinted at unmade threats. “All I have to do is unfold it, and if it is a knife, you could be in a lot more trouble than you already are. Why don’t you just tell me the truth, make it easier on both of us?”  
“It’s a comb.”  
“What?”  
Howard nodded earnestly, reaching out abruptly so he could show the officer before drawing back as the man moved sharply to stop him.  
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, son?” said the officer sternly. “You stay on your own side of the table and let me handle these, thank you.”  
“Sorry,” mumbled Howard. The officer looked at him for a few more moments before nodding and unfolding the blade- or, at least, what should have been the blade- from the knife. True to Howard’s word, it was a comb, and he breathed a heavy sigh of relief as the officer examined it silently. Maybe now they’d stop treating him like he’d done something wrong and just let him explain.  
“Why’ve you got a comb that looks like a knife?” asked the officer at length.  
“Couldn’t afford both,” replied Howard easily.  
“And is that the truth?”  
“Yes.”  
For a few more seconds there was silence. Howard could hear his own heart beating and was surprised at how steady it was. They way he’d heard it, he should be shouting and hitting things by now. Instead he’d just sort of entered a kind of focused sulk, a general sense of despair and confusion that had turned into resigned acceptance. It was a familiar feeling, though it took him a few minutes to place the reason why. It was the same as the way he felt when talking to Bainbridge and the others.  
“Okay,” the officer told him, “here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to stay in one of our nice comfortable cells until tomorrow, to give you and your mates a chance to cool off, and if you’re a good boy we’ll let you go home in the morning. Does that sound fair?”  
Howard didn’t really think it did, but he knew a rhetorical question when he heard one so he bit back a protest about how he’d not actually done anything and nodded instead.  
“Yes.”  
“Yes, what? We’ve been awfully generous here, really. Some of the people involved in that fight sustained serious injuries. You could be looking at a much longer sentence.”  
“Yes, thank you.”  
The officer gave a smug smile, obviously satisfied that at least one of the rockers he’d brought in was doing as they were told.  
“That’s better. Anna will show you to the cell, okay?”  
“Okay.”  
The officer stood and went to the door, opening it to reveal a blonde woman in police uniform. She gestured for Howard to follow her so he stood up, hesitating slightly as he passed the table with his possessions on it. It wasn’t much, but it was all he’d brought with him and he rather wanted it back.  
“Can I-?” he asked, glancing at the policeman and hovering his hand nervously over his comb. The officer shrugged.  
“I don’t see why not. The only thing offensive about any of that is your hair. On you go.”  
Howard flinched at the insult but felt better once his pockets were full again. He toyed nervously with his comb as he followed the blonde policewoman, Anna, toward the cells.  
“Now, there’s a slight issue with overcrowding,” she informed him crisply, before pausing and turning to a passing woman, also in uniform.  
“Emily?” she said, tapping the newcomer on the shoulder. Emily turned and smiled.  
“Alright, Anna? Listen to that tape I lent you yet?”  
“Yes, that’s what I was about to say. It’s fantastic, what did you say the band were called?”  
Howard fidgeted anxiously, accidentally spilling his change over the floor. He bent to pick it up as the two women finished their conversation, and continued walking carefully behind Anna.  
“What was that about overcrowding?” he asked. Anna blinked, looking for a moment like she’d forgotten, before nodding.  
“Oh yes, that’s right. You’ll have to double up with someone, because we don’t have enough cells. Don’t worry, nobody is armed and there’ll be an officer on duty if you need one.”  
Howard wondered why she was trying to reassure him. He was over six feet tall and wearing a leather jacket, not really a look associated with someone who needed to be babied. Before he could question it or protest, however, Anna was gripping his arm and steering him into a cell.  
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said, and then the door was closing and, for the first time in his life, Howard was looking at the inside of a prison cell.  
He heard movement from somewhere behind him and turned slowly, holding his breath. Knowing his luck it would be someone as big as he was and desperate for a fight. Instead his gaze fell on the almost familiar form of Vince Noir. The mod was sitting on the low bench at the back of the room, knees tucked up to his chest. He wasn’t wearing his jacket, which only served to highlight how slim he was. Howard felt bad for ever considering hitting him; the kid looked like he might snap in half if anyone threw a punch his way. That said, he was still conscious after a kicking from Bainbridge, which suggested there was more to him than met the eye.  
“Hello?” said Howard hesitantly, surprised at how loudly his voice sounded in the small room. Vince nodded his acknowledgement.  
“Alright,” he replied quietly. When nothing more seemed forthcoming Howard sat down cautiously at the other end of the bench, as far away from the younger man as the small space would allow. Vince turned to look at him, blue eyes shining with unnatural brightness, and something jumped in Howard’s chest. He looked away quickly, putting out a hand as though to ward him off.  
“You keep away from me, sir,” he said, sharply and with a panicked abruptness. “I know about you mods and your homosexual tendencies, and you’re not-”  
“‘Homosexual tendencies’?” scoffed Vince incredulously. “What, can’t a man take an interest in the way he looks without being labelled a poof? Clearly not a problem where you’re concerned, I suppose.”  
He cast a disdainful glance across Howard’s body, his gaze raking across his skin and making goosebumps spring up in its wake. Already defensive, and angry at himself for antagonising his cellmate so quickly, Howard’s hands curled into fists in his pockets.  
“Well, no- look, I wasn’t trying to say that-”  
“I am gay, as it happens,” said Vince casually, looking away from Howard at last and fixing his gaze firmly on the opposite wall. Howard flinched, looking frantically around the empty cell, shocked by Vince’s audacity.  
“You can’t just say that!” he hissed. The young man looked at him and shrugged.  
“Why not? We’re already in prison. What I’m trying to say is that I’m not gay because I’m a mod, and I’m not a mod because I’m gay. It’s two separate things, yeah? Stop with your stereotypes.”  
Howard didn’t quite know how to reply to that, so he settled for saying nothing. For a few minutes a deafening silence filled the cell.  
“Besides,” added Vince after a while, “being gay doesn’t mean I want to jump every bloke I meet. Trust me, you’re safe. I have some standards.”  
“I’ll have you know that this body is considered very desirable by women,” said Howard indignantly, puffing out his chest as best he could. Vince laughed, but there was no real malice in it. It felt like they were going through the motions of a fight just to pass the time.  
“Which women? Your mum?”  
Howard tried to think of a comeback, but hesitated. His mum. He hadn’t thought about her. She’d be worrying about him. Well, she might be. At the very least she’d be wondering why he was so late bringing her car back. And that was another thing- the car had been left in the hands of Bainbridge and the others.  
“Shit,” he muttered. Vince peered curiously at him.  
“Something wrong?” he asked. Howard flicked open his comb and ran it once through his hair in a calming motion, which had the added benefit of allowing him to raise his elbows and keep Vince away slightly.  
“No.”  
“Yeah there is. C’mon, you might as well tell me. We’ve got all night.”  
He grinned wickedly.  
“Don’t make me use some of my evil gay powers on you.”  
Howard sighed, though the corners of his mouth were twitching upwards slightly into a smile.  
“It’s just- my mum’s car. I borrowed it to get here, and now my friend’s got it and I’ve got no way of getting home in the morning. Knowing him he’ll probably get drunk and crash the stupid thing.”  
The bitterness in his own voice surprised him, and for a long moment he just stared at the floor, frowning. When at last he glanced up Vince was worrying his lower lip between his teeth, looking like he was considering something.  
“Where you from?” he asked at last.  
“London. Well, I’m from Leeds but I live in London. It’s pretty central, if I can just get back to the city I’ll find my way.”  
Vince nodded slowly.  
“I could- give you a lift?”  
This was an abrupt U-turn from what Howard had been expecting when he walked in. Vince was a mod, they were meant to be sworn enemies. At the very least he wasn’t supposed to be offering to help him.  
“Give me a lift? How?”  
Vince shook his head, retreating back into himself a little.  
“Stupid idea. Your mates have probably kicked my scooter to bits by now. But if it’s still around in the morning, there’s room on the back for you on the way back to London. If you want it, I mean.”  
“Are you sure?”  
Vince hesitated before nodding.  
“Why not? I’m in Camden, if I drop you somewhere round there you should be able to get home somehow. Right?”  
Howard nodded.  
“Yeah.”  
He paused, feeling the silence like a blanket across his shoulders.  
“…Thanks, Vince.”  
“No problem,” said the young mod cheerily, but it sounded forced. Howard glanced over and saw he was shivering. Vince caught him looking and hunched his shoulders defensively.  
“They took my jacket,” he said. “Said it was a weapon. Didn’t stop to think they should maybe heat these cells a bit.”  
It made sense. Most mods hade enough metal stitched across their lapels that it was a miracle they would even stand upright. Howard’s fingers strayed absently to the zip of his own jacket, toying nervously with the thin sliver of metal as he reached a decision. He slipped the coat off and held it out.  
“What are you doing?” asked Vince. Howard tried his best to shrug nonchalantly.  
“I’m not going to get any sleep with your teeth chattering like that. Besides, I don’t really like it anyway. Might as well do someone good.”  
Slowly, like he was afraid it was a trap, Vince closed his fingers around the material and draped it over his shoulders.  
“Cheers,” he muttered. Howard nodded.  
“If you’re getting me home, it’s the least I can do. Just don’t- I don’t know, touch me in my sleep or something.”  
Vince smiled, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes.  
“Piss off,” he muttered sleepily. “I’m a queer, I’m not a rapist.”  
Howard smiled at that. Settling himself into the most comfortable position he could find, he closed his eyes and tried his best to get some rest.  
Two sleepless hours passed, with Vince’s soft snores filling most of them, before Howard felt a soft weight press against him. He cracked open one eye to see the mod, open and trusting in sleep, leaning into his side. Instinct told him that he should move away, but logic said that if he was going to be on the back of a scooter he’d prefer his driver to be well rested, so Howard shifted slightly to accommodate the warm, skinny body. Before long he too was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual notes. Ownership of characters- nonexistent. Feedback- the best thing ever, including sliced bread but not including Noel Fielding's eyes. Random fun fact- the officer interrogating Howard here is basically my deputy head teacher.


	3. Time will tell if I'll take the homeward track

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I'm being entirely honest here, I just wanted them on the scooter. That was all I had planned for this chapter. Oh, and it's probably worth mentioning that I feel like they're pretty young in this, a couple of years younger than at the start of the Boosh. Basically in my head they look a little more like Pete and Stitch but act like Vince and Howard, if that makes any sense.

Morning was announced by the chaos and clatter of a hundred disgruntled youths being slowly released from prison, yelling to each other and kicking cell doors back with a clatter. Vince yelped and leapt away from Howard’s side the moment he opened his eyes, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt and looking around nervously. Howard could have sworn he caught the hint of a blush on his pale cheeks, but it was only for a moment. It was difficult to tell beneath the bruises that were beginning to fade up there, and Howard wondered if he looked that bad as well. He certainly felt it. Everything ached. He coughed awkwardly as he sat upright, nodding to Vince.  
“Your hair’s a bit….” he began, and Vince raised a hand with a groan to check. It was all ruffled and out of place, nothing like fashion dictated it should be.  
“Shit. Here, can I borrow that comb you had? There’s no way I can go out looking like this.”  
Howard nodded, picking up his jacket and rummaging in the pockets for the comb before putting it back on. He tossed the comb across the cell, where Vince caught it effortlessly. He laughed.  
“What’s this?”  
Howard shuffled his feet sheepishly.  
“I couldn’t afford a comb and a knife, so I got this.”  
“What if someone comes at you though? You gonna style them to death?”  
Vince flicked out the ‘blade’ like he’d done it a thousand times before, holding it out like he was duelling. In a quick, graceful movement he pirouetted, twirled across the room, and pressed the teeth of the comb to Howard’s neck. For a split second he held the contact, lips uncomfortably close to the taller man’s cheek, breath tickling in his moustache. And then he was gone, across the room again, pulling his hair effortlessly back into place.  
“Is that ride home still on offer?” asked Howard after a moment, having been almost mesmerised by the smooth movements of Vince’s hand through his hair.  
“Hm? Yeah, course it is. We just need to get back to my scooter.”  
Vince grinned sharply at him, folding the knife away and handing it back.  
“Thanks for that, by the way.”  
Howard swallowed around the nervous lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat.  
“No problem.”  
He slipped a hand into his pocket as he followed Vince out of the door, fingers curling around the still-warm handle of the comb. The station was bursting with activity, every corner full of people moving and talking and arguing. Vince touched his arm lightly, which Howard shook away quickly, and muttered something about getting his jacket back and meeting Howard outside. The taller man nodded and wandered over to the door, stumbling a few times as people moved around him. He received more than a few thumps for not looking where he was going, but the fact they were all technically still being held at the station took quite a lot of the violence out of it.  
Outside was pleasantly cool, especially compared to the suffocating warmth of the crowd indoors, but the sun was shining brightly and Howard knew that by noon it would be as hot a day as if it was the middle of summer. Probably nicer, actually, seeing as the seasons seemed to have a tendency to come a little out of order. He leaned back against the wall of the station, feeling the rough brickwork catching at his jacket, and took a couple of deep breaths. Things really hadn’t gone quite according to plan, he reflected glumly. He’d borrowed the car expecting to drive one or two of his friends down to the beach for a nice break and instead he’d been beaten up, put in prison, and ended up accidentally trusting a mod to get him home. All in all, it wasn’t quite what he’d expected.  
The sudden appearance of Vince jolted him from his thoughts. The mod’s suit jacket had been returned to him, and he looked much more confident now he was properly dressed again. He grinned at Howard.  
“Come on, then. I think it’s this way.”  
Vince lead the way down the street, back towards the beach and the pier where it had all began. Howard’s breath caught in his throat when he saw the destruction they’d left behind. Scattered across the sand were splintered planks, scraps of fabric, dropped knives and loose change forgotten in the scuffle. Here and there were dark stains that could only be blood.  
_You did that_ , thought Howard, _you and Bainbridge and Bollo and all the other idiots who came here looking for a scrap. This is your fault._  
Bile rose in his throat. By his side, Vince had gone pale.  
“Was that us?” he whispered, and Howard knew a similar train of though was running through his head. He wanted to shake his head, offer some reassurance, but he couldn’t do it. The words were too tight, too heavy in his throat. Instead Howard found himself nodding gravely.  
“I’m afraid so, little man.”  
Where had that come from? He hadn’t meant to sound so affectionate but, as the young man swallowed and curled in on himself slightly, he was glad he had. For a few moments Vince stayed completely still, barely seeming to breathe, before glancing back at him.  
“What’s your name?” he asked. Howard blinked. He hadn’t realised they hadn’t actually been introduced.  
“Howard. Howard Moon,” he replied, holding out a hand. Vince shook it, his own slim fingers curling around Howard’s large hand.  
“I’m Vince Noir. But you knew that yesterday, didn’t you? I didn’t realise.”  
Howard nodded, reluctantly letting go of Vince’s hand.  
“Yeah, I heard them call you up for an interview.”  
He looked around them, sighing heavily.  
“I’m sorry for trying to hit you with a deckchair,” he said after a moment. Vince shrugged.  
“Nah, ‘s alright. Sorry Naboo and the others tried to take your head off. You hadn’t done anything.”  
“Sorry I let Bainbridge punch you.”  
“Sorry he stole your car.”  
“Sorry for being here.”  
Vince laughed at that, a shaky exhale of breath, his eyes sparkling in the last of the ocean sunrise as he looked away towards the horizon.  
“Yeah. You got that right.”  
There was silence then, suspended in the air between them, but it was broken a second later as Howard’s stomach rumbled loudly. Vince laughed.  
“I’m starving, actually,” he said. “Wait here a moment, okay?”  
“Where are you going?” asked Howard. He didn’t want to be left behind if Vince wandered off. He had no other way of getting back home. The young man shot him a reassuring smile.  
“I’ll be back in a minute, alright? Trust me. Just have a seat, I’ll be right back.”  
Howard sat reluctantly on a low wall and watched as Vince hurried off out of sight. The street was almost deserted, the only other person he could see a middle-aged woman walking a small terrier down the beach. It wasn’t surprising really. It was early enough that the town was only just waking up, and besides, he doubted many people would come out that soon after the riot.  
As he watched, the wire-haired terrier spotted a torn piece of fabric fluttering from beneath a splintered plank. It barked threateningly a few times, wagging its tail, then took a running jump and pounced. The material resisted briefly, but came away after a few hard tugs. A smile tugged at Howard’s lips as the dog growled and shook it hard, tail waggling side to side like it had just discovered the best toy in the world.  
A hand landed on his shoulder and he glanced up to see Vince holding two small parcels, wrapped in newspaper. A tantalising smell was rising from them, and Howard’s mouth began to water when he realised what it was. Vince sat down beside him and handed one over with a smile.  
“No use coming to the seaside if you don’t buy fish an’ chips, right?” he said, sounding a little uncertain. Howard didn’t answer- he was too busy tearing the paper open, too hungry for conversation. Vince laughed and did the same, wincing at first as the hot chips burned at his fingers. Salty and just a little greasy, Howard thought they might be the best thing he’d ever eaten.  
When Vince finished his own food he shuffled closer and started stealing some of Howard’s. He didn’t protest. He was beginning to get the sense that the younger man was just naturally affectionate, and however much he was unused to that he wanted to stay on his good side until they got back to London. Suspended in the moment, resting in the place where peace met chaos, they leaned against each other and watched a stranger toss broken chair legs for her dog to collect.  
The sun was riding high in the sky by the time they moved. Vince shifted, standing up and stretching his arms with a groan.  
“Shall we go look for your bike?” asked Howard, standing and stepping down the road slightly. Vince glared, mock-offended.  
“Scooter! And I found it, actually. It’s up there.”  
Vince pointed round a corner, hurrying over to it. He always seemed to be in a rush, not out of any need to get somewhere but out of a restless, almost childish desire to keep moving. Howard was struggling not to find it endearing, but honestly it just seemed like too much effort. Why should he hate Vince? Because he was wearing a suit? Maybe mods and rockers weren’t supposed to be friends, but in the few hours they’d known each other Vince had been nicer to him than most of his so-called friends ever had.  
He rounded the corner to see Vince crouching next to a pale blue scooter, prodding at a dent in the side. He straightened up when he saw Howard, nodding sheepishly at him.  
“Your mates did a pretty good job of kicking the shit out of the panels,” he told him. “Left the ignition wires alone though, so we should be alright.”  
With that he hopped on and patted the seat behind him.  
“Are you even old enough to drive that thing?” asked Howard sceptically. Vince rolled his eyes.  
“Course I am, you git. I’m not just some kid who’s borrowed a ride off his parents. This is mine.”  
Howard glared at him, regarding the scooter warily as though it was a dog that was about to bite him.  
“Come on,” Vince continued, noticing Howard’s hesitation. “It’s not as bad as it looks, honest.”  
Cautiously, afraid to get too close, Howard sat down. He looked around for somewhere to put his hands and Vince sighed.  
“Look, Howard, it’s alright. Just lean forward, hands around my waist.”  
Reluctantly he did as he was told, pressing his body close to Vince and slipping his arms around his skinny waist. It didn’t feel safe at all, but before he had time to say as much Vince had started moving. Howard tucked his feet up behind Vince’s and clung on as they picked up speed, houses moving past them at an alarming rate. He tucked his face in against Vince’s shoulder to steady himself, rocking and shifting as they went over a bump in the road. In front of him he felt Vince laugh, the sound making his chest shake and Howard cling on tighter.  
“For someone who doesn’t like gays, you’re getting pretty personal with my arse,” he joked. Howard felt his cheeks burn red and tried to push away somehow, but at the next bump he was grinding against Vince again. Once the thought had entered his head it was almost impossible to get rid of, especially with Vince so close. There was no escaping him. The wind was whipping in his long hair and sending it flying in Howard’s face, bringing with it a lingering smell of sea air and cheap hair gel, which flooded his lungs and made him gasp.  
Strangely, the faster they went the safer Howard felt. Every time they went round a corner Vince would let out a whoop of excitement, and despite his misgivings Howard was almost enjoying himself. Whenever they took a sharp bend Howard would have to clench his knees together to keep steady, and more than once Vince swerved and wobbled, but it was all just part of the ride. He wasn’t going to buy himself a motorbike any time soon, even if he had the money for one, but he was beginning to understand why so many people enjoyed it. There was something freeing about it. Like he was flying.  
The journey back to London seemed to take forever and no time at all. Howard had let go of his embarrassment at being so close to Vince and just tried to enjoy the journey. For the most part it had worked. By the time they reached the city again Howard was dishevelled and exhausted, but he was smiling. After driving around a little longer than necessary Vince found a place to park and slowed to a halt, letting Howard climb off. His legs were slightly shaky from sitting in the same awkward position for so long, but he managed to stand without stumbling and embarrassing himself.  
“You get home from here okay?” asked Vince, and Howard nodded with a tight smile.  
“Yeah. Thanks for the ride, if there’s anything I can do..?”  
Vince waved him away.  
“Nah, it’s alright. I’ll maybe see you around, yeah?”  
Howard nodded.  
“I’d like that.”  
“Good,” said Vince. “So would I. Just don’t let that prick with the moustache find out, alright?”  
Howard laughed.  
“Who, Bainbridge? I’m not telling him anything, and he’s too self-centred to suspect anything. He’s convinced we all worship him.”  
Vince laughed, then coughed and awkwardly shifted in his seat.  
“I’ll be off then. See you, Howard.”  
“You too, Vince.”  
With a final nod and a grin Vince was away, weaving around cars and people as he wound his way home. Howard watched him go, aware that people were staring. A mod sharing his ride with a rocker? It was unheard of. Still, thought Howard as he turned to go home, all in all things had worked out pretty well. He reached for his comb to fix some of the damage done by the journey, but when he pulled it out something caught his eye. Written in pencil along the handle in round, careful handwriting was an address and a date, three days from then. It was signed with a rather wobbly “Vince x”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reading back over this, I also really like the image of them sitting eating chips in the morning and watching the dog play fetch. That's a nice one.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously I don't own the characters, songs, people, or Brighton. I'm just imagining things with them in the hopes some people other than myself will be entertained by it.


End file.
